


doves

by try_reset (technorat)



Series: prisoners of peace [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Diplomacy, Gen, Harm to Children, Hostage Situations, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Temporary Character Death, Threats of Violence, benarmie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 16:38:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14241447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technorat/pseuds/try_reset
Summary: The Galaxy reaches balance, through Peacekeeper Snoke's guidance. To rule, you must give your child to him as a prisoner of the peace. If you declare war, your child dies.Amongst the hostages are Ben Organa Solo and Armitage Hux.





	doves

**Author's Note:**

> I'm happy to finally start posting this fic! This is a collab with my friend Eryka. You can find them on [tumblr](http://bniec.tumblr.com). You can find their art for this fic [here! :D](http://bniec.tumblr.com/post/172687628623/1st-part-of-the-collab-with-my-wonderful-friend)
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/gay_galaxy_guy)
> 
> Warnings applicable to this chapter: referenced/implied poor treatment of children

Han picked him up from Uncle Luke’s Jedi Academy.

That was the first hint that something was desperately wrong.

Han had not talked much in the flight back to D’Qar. He’d smiled tightly at Ben’s questions and fidgeted with his hands. There was a darkness around Han, a pool of fear and worry and helplessness, all of which spiraling down, down, down.

So Ben kicks out his feet, from where they dangle from his seat. The co-pilot’s seat is too big for him. He will grow into it with time. It will be his inheritance. His father has promised him.

“ _Nggrr?”_ Chewbacca nudges gently, stirring Ben from his thoughts.

“A game of dejarik?” Ben says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Sure!” He’s never lost a round with Chewbacca yet.

*

Leia waits for them dressed in deep purple hues, her hair up in braids. She looks older than he remembers, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth.

Ben stumbles out of the Falcon and into her arms, his eyes never leaving her face. “Mom,” he manages, breathing into the fabric of her dress. He’d missed her, missed her so fiercely.

She holds him tightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “Ben,” she says softly. “I’ve missed you.” How tired she sounds!

Han and Chewbacca join them, watching as mother and son stay in their tight embrace.

Finally Han coughs, as if to remind his wife and child of his own existence.

Leia lets him go and he almost protests. It’s been years since he’s seen her, years since he’d had something as simple as the warmth and comfort of human touch. Leia turns to Han, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Have you told him?” Leia asks.

Han runs a hand over his face. “How could I?” He desperately does not meet Ben’s curious gaze. He looks at some point behind Leia, some point far beyond Ben. He swallows tightly.

The fear and agitation around him only grows darker. His father is grieving something too early, Ben can feel it. But what?

She sighs. “Of course you didn’t,” Leia says, her shoulders slumping down underneath some invisible weight.

It occurs to him that there is something his parents aren’t telling him, something they’re keeping secret, something that pertains to him. So, nothing new then.

“Ben, come with me,” Leia says, holding out her hand.

He takes it, gripping it tightly. He is eleven years old—too old to be mommy’s baby, as some of Luke’s other, mean apprentices would say. But he missed her. And she missed him. And he wanted to take whatever comfort he could, and pretend that their family is whole and good again.

Ben is dressed in a long, white shapeless gown, the same kind of gown his mother had always favored. Leia kisses his face—his nose, his cheeks, his chin—and sets about combing and braiding his thick, black hair, freeing strands from his padawan’s braid.

“Ben, you know that I love you,” she says.

He nods, drowning in her sorrow, in her grief.

Leia tucks his hair behind his big ears and lets her hand linger on his cheek. She’s crying, tears rolling down her face.

“Mom,” Ben says, stunned by his mother’s grief. “What’s going on?”

“You deserve to know,” she says lowly, letting out a sigh. “There is a powerful man who claims that he will hold the peace in the galaxy. He’s demanding one child from the leader of every system of government to hold as a prisoner for this peace.”

Ben’s mouth runs dry.

He pulls away from her, stunned by her betrayal.

“So, I’m gonna be a hostage because you want to lead the Resistance,” Ben says bitterly.

Leia stands up straight, taking a step backwards, taken aback by her son’s words. “No, Ben, you don’t understand—”

He shakes his head, ignoring the burning of unshed tears. “I understand it enough. I’ll never be as important as the Resistance.” He turns on his heel and runs, runs away—

—Right back to Chewbacca, who stops him with his great big furry paws and holds him close.

Ben shakes and cries, wailing into Chewbacca’s fur.

*

Peacekeeper Snoke lives on a starship bigger than any Ben has ever seen.

It looks like something out of the fallen Empire, but many, many times larger and staffed by faceless men in red. He doesn’t think they’re human. Doesn’t think they are alive. The Force around them feels funny. They don’t exert emotions like living things do.

They breathe, yes, but it looks weird. Inhales and exhales that are constant, large, and slow—like creatures just pretending to need to breathe. It’d be more comforting if their chests didn’t move at all. Then Ben could pretend that they’re droids, like C-3PO and R2-D2.

Ben has no choice but to follow the men in red, all the way to a central room.

The doors part before him and the guards lead him through.

The room is cavernous, gaping out before him. The guards bring him in front of a massive throne, where Peacekeeper Snoke presides. Kneeling before him are other children—some Ben’s age and some younger.

Wordlessly, he joins them, kneeling on the cold, hard ground.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Ben,” Peacekeeper Snoke says.

Ben does not dare look up. His heart beats loud and quick in his chest. He has heard that voice before—in his nightmares and darkest thoughts.

“Rise, all of you,” Peacekeeper Snoke. “You are not simple prisoners. You are prisoners of peace. You will be provided for—given the best education available, taught all you must know. And you will see your families again. Periodical leaves will be given for you to visit your parents, so fret not. This is a place where peace will flourish and you with it.”

Ben stands, his knees aching. He trembles underneath the white gown, suddenly feeling dwarfed by it.

Snoke is a looming creature, face twisted and scarred. He must be Chewbacca’s height. Or perhaps a little taller. He is dressed in a gaudy gold robe, one that blinds him when the light hits.

But Chewbacca is not here to protect him, to hold him in his strong, warm arms.

There are three other children: a little girl who looks ill at ease with her fine clothing, a prince whose eyes are glossy with fear, and a third boy, dressed up in a military uniform much too big for him.

“More children will be arriving over the next few cycles,” Snoke says, rising to his feet. He walks funny, favoring his left. “For now, we will all get settled in our new routines. I suspect you have much to learn.”

*

They are given rooms, separate from one another.

The rooms are narrow things with hardly any furniture. Ben throws himself on his bed and pulls the blanket over his head. It isn’t warm; it’s cold, a cold that seeps into his very bones. He doesn’t let himself cry.

He simply lies there, listening to the workings of the ship. If he closes his eyes and pretends, maybe the whirring sounds of the air filtration system is really the sound of his parents breathing.

*

Ben is woken up by a Praetorian Guard at the door—one of Snoke’s men in red armor. He is given a change of clothing and a com, a schedule displayed upon it.

He is taken to a communal fresher first, where he takes a brisk and brief sonic before dressing himself in the provided clothing. The garments are drab and grey, but fit him precisely, from the button-up shirt to the trousers to the boots. Everything fits together, as if custom made for his measurements, though none had been taken.

His com beeps.

 _Communal breakfast_ , it reads.

The Praetorian Guard does not say a word, but simply leads the way once again. Perhaps the guard has a copy of his schedule. Perhaps everyone has something similar.

It does not explain why or how Ben got the chance to take a sonic in almost privacy.

Breakfast is held in a cafeteria styled room. Droids serve the children, all gathered, groomed, and dressed in grey garb. No one looks up at him as he collects a tray of protein mush for himself and takes a seat.

His guard settles himself in the back of the cafeteria, alongside the others. They watch on, wordless and hungerless. Their weapons hang upon them, some larger than the children they watch.

Ben scoops the protein mush and recoils at the bland taste.

Across him, the boy from yesterday—the one that had dressed in a uniform too large for him—scoffs. He eats hurriedly, as if afraid someone will come to take his food away from him. He’s dressed in clothing that fits him today, clothing that doesn’t hide how scrawny he is.

“What?” Ben says, jutting his chin up in defiance. Mush falls from his spoon, back onto his tray. He pushes it around.

The boy watches, lip curled in distaste. He’s ginger, bright hair slicked back away from his pallid, gaunt face. His eyes are shadowed, a poor night’s sleep on display. “You’re playing with your food,” he says, accept crisp and cruel. “Is that what the Resistance teaches?”

Ben grits his teeth together. He slams his spoon down on the table, all other conversation dying down. “You take that back,” he says, puffing out his cheeks.

The boy narrows his eyes. “And if I don’t?” He says. He cannot be much older than Ben’s eleven. He looks young, half starved. He looks cool, calm, and cruel—and not what his parents had warned him when they talked about the remnants of the Empire.

Ben stands. On the table, his spoon snaps in half. Every spoon follows suit, shattering with ease.

The Praetorian Guards snap into motion, withdrawing their weapons, weapons that glow red and hot.

The light bathes the other boy’s face in red. “Ah. A sorcerer,” he says, before sitting down.

The Praetorian Guards don’t back down until Ben sits. In the moment, they had stopped the meaningless action of moving their chests in the illusion of breathing.

A droid rolls by, collecting the broken silverware. Another comes shortly, resupplying them with spoons.

Ben does not miss how the other children look at him now, with fear painted in their young eyes.

Only the child of the Empire looks at him differently. He looks at Ben with open contempt.

*

His com goes off again. So does the com of every child in the room. A Praetorian Guard comes to the side of each child. They are paired off, into two groups of two.

Ben and the ginger boy follow behind two guards. The other boy makes a point to not meet Ben’s eyes, walking with his back perfectly straight and with his fists balled at his sides.

The guards do not talk to them. Ben is not sure that they even have the capacity for conversation. The halls stretch on, long and barren, save for the occasional mouse droid.

The guards finally stop at a great, wide door. One presses in a key code, unlocking the door.

Beyond the door is a greenhouse of sorts, plants growing in neat sections throughout the room.

The other boy is the first one in, collecting gardening tools that are stacked against the wall. Ben follows him more slowly, picking up a bag of plant food.

The guards take their stations beside the door, watching. Waiting. Silently.

“What is this?” Ben mutters.

“A farm,” the other boy says, rolling his eyes. “Clearly. Come help me. Scatter the nutrients and I’ll water the plants.”

Ben frowns, hugging the bag to himself. “And why should I help you?” he says, pouting. It’s childish. But he is still angry from the incident at breakfast. And the boy is already bossing him around.

He doesn’t even know his name.

“Because we’re supposed to work together,” the other boy says, rolling his eyes again.

“What’s your name?”

The boy looks at Ben like he’s suddenly sprouted another head. “What does it matter?” he says, fingers gripping the watering can tightly.

“If we’re gonna work together I wanna know your name,” Ben says. “I’m Ben Organa Solo. Now your turn.”

The boy sighs, muttering something under his breath. “My name is Armitage Hux,” he grumbles, lips pulled into a disgusted sneer. It looks like something he’s learned, something that doesn’t sit quite right on his face.

“Like Commandant Hux?” Ben asks. He opens up the bag and takes a handful of the nutrient pellets, sprinkling them along rows of plants. He recognizes some—corn, beans, tomatoes—but others are more alien—hanging fruits in shade of deep purples and bright yellows, greet shoots with thick, gnarled roots that peak above the dirt.

“I’m his _son_ ,” Armitage snaps, crossing his arms, growing defensive. His cheeks flush a bright, angry red. “And it’s _General_ Hux now.”

Ben shrugs, continuing his work. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he says.

Armitage’s jaw snaps shut. The boy fumes silently, watering every plant that Ben has already tended to.

They work in silence, trying not to look at one another.

*

Ben doesn’t know how long they work. Only that they have not tended to every plant within the absurdly large greenhouse. He feels judging looks from behind the slender slits in the Praetorian Guards’ masks.

Armitage empties the watering can and places it beside the door before leaving, one of the guards following after him.

Ben throws down the bag of plant food wherever. “Hey!” he calls, Praetorian Guard beside him, despite his quick, jogging pace. “Don’t you think you’re being rude?”

Armitage doesn’t even look behind him. His Praetorian Guard shifts ahead, leading the way down the corridors.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Ben asks.

Armitage stays quiet.

Ben sighs, throwing up his hands in defeat, like he’s seen his father do before. The other boy is impossible, mean, and thinks himself better than anyone else.

The Praetorian Guards lead them to an elevator, never leaving their sides. Perhaps they were afraid of the slim chance of their escape. (But even if Ben ran away, he would have nowhere to return to.)

The elevator descends, Ben’s ears popping with the pressure.

The doors open and the Guards force them out, hands on their weapons.

Ben and Armitage are lead to another great, big room.

It’s a library. Ben recognizes the structure of it from holodramas and plays that his mother would put on for him when he was home. Books—rare, expensive paper books—line the numerous ceiling to floor shelves.

Ben gapes at the sight of it, suddenly understanding the depth of Peacekeeper Snoke’s wealth.

The other two children are there, dressed in the same grey clothes as before, and seated on one of two couches. The boy trembles, but his lips are pressed together in determination. He and the girl are holding hands, looking as if they are heading to war.

Seated between the couches is an older man, hair thinning on his head. He wears loose, white clothes, a necklace with the symbol of the Resistance around his throat. He, too, is trembling, almost imperceptibly.

“A-ah,” the man says, standing and putting his hands together when he sees Ben and Armitage. “Have a seat, have a seat, sons,” he says, gesturing at the empty couch. “My name is Richard Phalax. I’m a scholar in galactic history and I’ve been chosen to lecture to you for the next few cycles.”

Ben and Armitage seat themselves, leaving as much room as possible between them.

“Good, good,” Phalax says. “Let’s go around introducing ourselves then, shall we?” His hands flutter in the air with a nervous energy. “Prince Finn, of course I know who you are, but why don’t you introduce yourself again?”

Finn smiles slowly. “My name is Finn Galfridian,” he says. “I’m from planet Artorias.” He blinks rapidly, homesickness leaking from him thick as honey.

“I’m a fan of your father’s work in the New Republic’s Senate,” Phalax states softly. “He’s a figure to watch in our rollicking political times.”

The girl straightens up, wriggling in her seat. She vibrates with antsy energy. She’s thinking about how expensive everything in the room is, how if she stole even one item, she would never be hungry again.

“My name is Rey,” she says. Her face is sunburnt, freckles blooming across his cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her hair is gathered into three small buns at the back of her head. It reminds him of Leia.

“Where are you from, Rey?” Phalax asks. “Who are you hostaged for?”

Rey licks her dry, cracked lips. “Unkar Plutt, Junk Lord of Jakku, has picked me as his hostage of the peace.” She says it like it pains her to do so. Her heart longs for the sands of Jakku.

“Ah,” Phalax says, choosing not to comment on Unkar or the bullying he commits of the scavengers of the desert planet. “Jakku was an important battleground during the fall of the Empire. We will discuss it in time.”

Armitage shifts, sitting on his hands.

“And you?” Phalax says, turning to Ben.

It takes Ben a moment. How had Phalax not recognized him, when his mother’s symbol hung around his neck? “My name is Ben Organa Solo.”

Phalax’s eyes widen. “Organa,” he repeats, mouth drying. “Ah. I see the resemblance now. And you are?” He says, hurrying to the final child in the room.

“My father is General Brendol Hux, sir,” Armitage says. “My name is Armitage.”

Phalax only grows paler. He presses his lips together and nods to himself, raising his brows. “Ah, yes. Well… with introductions out of the way, let us begin.”

*

Cycles go by in this quiet pattern. Ben is woken up early, taken to the sonics and to breakfast, before a blurry of work and lecture sessions. The tightly packed schedule does not give him time to do anything, not even to truly contemplate his situation.

Finn and Rey are younger than him by four years, he learns. He also learns Armitage is older than him by one.

Meals are bland and tasteless, that simple protein mush or rehydrated ration bars.

He and Armitage continue to be paired for their chores every cycle—from watering and feeding plants in the greenhouse to sweeping the halls of their assigned sleeping level to mucking out the fresher. It’s hard work for children, work that callouses their hands.

Lectures are given by visiting specialists in their field.

Each lecturer is nearly paralyzed by fear, their anxiety, fear, and confusion spilling into the air and agitating Ben.

He doesn’t think he’s learning anything, not really. Not when he’s so tired from their chores, not when he’s so tired from sleepless, dream-filled nights.

No one seems to notice.

But why would anyone care?

At their assigned dinner time, Ben nearly chokes on the dry, chalky nutrient bar. It’s torture, he is convinced, to feed the hostages cheap rations when a greenhouse filled with food—ripe fruit and vegetables—exists out there.

Armitage gives him a weird look. He’s already finished the nutrient bar. Now he picks at the skin underneath his nails.

“What?” Ben says.

“You always make faces when you eat,” Armitage says, unimpressed.

“Well, it tastes so bad!” Ben says. His teeth crack down, grinding against each other in a funny way.

“It’s not that bad,” Armitage says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve had worse.”

Ben scoffs, crossing his arms. He abandons his meal; he cannot stand the taste of it any longer. “Yeah? When?”

Armitage looks at him for a long time, unblinking. He shakes his head.

“I thought so,” Ben says.

He presses his lips together. “When the Empire fell and the survivors escaped to the Outer Rim, we were starved,” he hisses. “Your New Republic held a trade embargo against the Outer Rim. There was hardly any food. I survived off of 1/3 rations for too many cycles. Others didn’t survive.”

Ben quiets. He looks at what remains of the nutrient bar. 1/3 of it was not enough. Even the full bar would not be satisfactory for an entire day.

He looks at Armitage, really looks at Armitage. He’s gained weight in his time within Peacekeeper Snoke’s domain. He still looks beady-eyed and weasel-y. But less so than before.

Grief hangs around Armitage’s shoulders, around his neck. What a heavy burden it could be.

*

Another shift in the ship’s greenhouse.

They’d been provided with baskets this time and a quota for how many fruits to pick. The yellow, bulbous fruits are the first to be harvested. Armitage, being taller than Ben, is the one to pick them, dropping them into Ben’s basket.

“They sure smell strong,” Ben says, scrunching up his nose. Like a mixture of citrus and spice. He wonders where they will go. Who will eat them.

Certainly not the peace hostages.

Armitage shrugs, but continues in his task. “Everything does here.”

They continue, lapsing into silence. Two Praetorian Guards stand by the door out of the greenhouse. Their hands remain on their staffs, ready for a battle. If they stayed really still and if their false breathing abated, then perhaps they could pass for statues.

Strange, red-plated statues, with weapons that glow and pulse.

Armitage and Ben move on to the next requested fruit. A smaller basket is provided for berries as black and shiny as the night. They smell sweet, criminally sweet. And there are so many on the bushes.

Surely Peacekeeper Snoke would miss a few.

Ben picks a handful, shoving them into his mouth. They’re sweet and juicy against his tongue, better than anything he’s eaten in a long, long time. The berries stain his hands purple with their juice. He brings his palms to his mouth, licking at them.

“Ew, Ben,”Armitage says, frowning. He picks berries by the handful, dropping them into the small basket.

“They taste good,” Ben says. “Better than a ration bar.”

Armitage looks at him warily.

Ben picks a berry—just a single one. That for sure no one would miss. “Here,” he says, pressing it to the corner of Armitage’s mouth. “Try it.”

Armitage’s brows furrow. He sighs and takes the berry straight from Ben’s hand. He chews it, slowly, cringing at the taste.

“You didn’t like it?” Ben asks, somewhat disappointed.

“Too sweet,” Armitage says, shuddering.

“Leave it to the Empire to not know what’s good,” Ben says, shaking his head. They continue gathering, lapsing into silence.

Ben wonders if he can wash his hands before going to the lecture, to get rid of his berry-stained hands.

The Praetorian Guards spring to life, jogging to the boys.

Armitage freezes in place, picked berries spilling from his hands and onto the floor.

Ben’s heart hammers in his chest.

The guards approach him slowly. Once they see his palms, they grab his arms and drag him out of the room.

Ben doesn’t think, doesn’t think to struggle, to scream. _This is it_ , he thinks to himself. _I’m gonna die for a handful of sweet berries._

_Were they worth it?_

*

He’s brought to Snoke’s throne room, thrown before his throne, knees hitting the floor hard. Ben’s legs ache—and so do his arms, his head.

Snoke sitting on his throne, gold robe wrapped around his alien form. He looks amused. Lips twisted into a smile of sorts. “Ben Solo,” he says kindly, as if he’d waited for him. “I’ve been told you ate from the greenhouse without my express permission?”

“Yes,” Ben says. “But it was just a few berries.”

His palms are still stained with his trespass. Snoke sees them, even when Ben hides them away.

“Just a few berries,” Snoke repeats, mockingly. “That is the sort of attitude which sends our Galaxy into disorder. You went against orders. Instead of picking the requested fruits, as requested, you ate them.” He clicks his tongue. “What is worse is that you don’t even think you are in the wrong.”

Ben flinches at the sharp words, shrinking into himself.

“Ben,” Snoke says, speaking softer. He rises from his throne and approaches, one elongated hand resting upon Ben’s head. “The tasks given to you and to your fellow prisoners of peace are for your own improvement. You’ve failed this cycle and that disappoints me. Do better tomorrow.”

The Praetorian Guards move, approaching on either side of Ben.

“Take him to his room,” Snoke orders, waving them off.

The Praetorian Guards lead him away, this time not laying a hand on him. Ben’s head feels heavy where Snoke had touched him.

He longs for a kind touch like that again. How long he’d been starved from something so essential, something so human.

*

He’s taken to his room and left there with nothing to do.

His com doesn’t beep and alert him of something on his schedule. His schedule is left curiously blank. Perhaps the boredom is his punishment for failing Snoke. Perhaps the hunger is.

His stomach growls, the only noise in the room beside the churning of the air filters, the mechanics of the ship

Without a Praetorian Guard at his side, he would not be able to go anywhere within the ship. Worse yet, if he was caught. What punishment would he be given by Snoke gentle hand, for failing such simple rules twice in a cycle.

So Ben shucks himself of his grey clothing, dressing in equally grey sleeping clothes, soft against his skin. He pulls his bedsheets over the top of his head, in a vain effort to fight the chill of the room.

He drifts, in and out of restless sleep.

And then—

Ben sits up, eyes wide open. His heart pounds. He’s heard something, he swears it. Ben pushes aside his sheets and clambers out of bed, bare feet touching the cold floor.

He hears it again. And relaxes. Three little knocks at his door.

He goes to it, cautiously. Ben hadn’t thought to open the door, to leave. Had found it pointless. And now he was being rewarded for it.

Ben slides open the door and— is disappointed for it.

Armitage stands there, only dressed in his grey sleeping clothes, hair dripping wet.

“Armitage,” Ben says. “What are you doing here?”

The other boy does not answer him. He simply pushes his way in past Ben. “Shut the door, would you?” Armitage asks, his Imperial accent flaring with stress. It sounds false, put on like a mask.

Ben rolls his eyes and complies. “Yes, _sir_.”

“Here,” Armitage says, shoving something into Ben’s arms. His cheeks redden, but his impressive glower makes them look less important.

Ben looks down to see a nutrient bar, opened, but most of it remaining.

Before Ben can say a word, Armitage is gone, slipping back out into the halls.

Ben sits upon his bed, slightly shaken by the encounter. He peels open the ration bar wrapper, finding two-thirds of it remaining. He eats, the chalky flavor of it sticking to his mouth.

He doesn’t understand Armitage at all.

*

*

*


End file.
